


Master of a Nothing Place

by Della19



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, First Time, Light Bondage, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Della19/pseuds/Della19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, they’ve been headed here from the moment the box opened and she saw him there, master of a nothing place.  She wanted to strip him of his armour, put her mouth on him until he begged, and knock that smirk off his face.  But she was married then, and he was a stranger, so she refrained.  But now she’s a widow and he’s the one steady thing in her shifting life, and everything has changed from that moment.  Except one thing; she’d still like to tie him down and wipe that smirk off his face.</p><p>So she does.  </p><p>Or, Lizzie has some residual feelings about Red in The Box, and Red has a some overt Lizzie feelings, so it all works out.  Lizzington PWP, D/s and power dynamic overtones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master of a Nothing Place

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, I own no character and make no profit. 
> 
> Warnings: Explicit content, light power dynamics, blowjob. 
> 
> A/N: This fic takes place in a nebulous near future (possible AU) where Tom is dead and Red has been proven to not be her father. I imagine this Liz has a negative DNA test secreted away somewhere, and some lovely peace of mind that comes with that :)

******************************

_The pale princess of a palace cracked_

_And now the kingdom comes_

_Crashing down undone_

_And I am a master of a nothing place_

The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning - The Smashing Pumpkins

******************************

“We need to stop meeting like this,” Red quips from his current position, all trussed up and tied to a chair in the hotel room Liz has just burst into gun first.

Liz just _sighs_.

That the blacklister is gone is beyond obvious, and has been for a while, but a quick survey of Red shows that the only thing hurt with him is his dignity, tied pretty securely to a winged backed chair in the corner of the room by his hands and feet, and so Liz lets herself relax, and enjoy the situation as it deserves to be enjoyed.

The look Red gives her - amused, but playing himself off as chastising - tells her he’s noticed her less than empathetic reaction to his plight, and that he’s not holding it against her.

He never really does, and don’t think Liz hasn’t noticed that.

“Are you going to give me a hand with this?” Red asks, gesturing down with his eyes to the ropes binding him to the chair, a twinkle on his eyes and that damned _smirk_ of his on his face.

It’s the smirk, Liz decides, that dictates what she does next.

“No,” Liz says musingly, placing her hands on her knees and stinking down in one smooth, long movement, spine curved, ass out, and she purrs, from the vicinity of the now tented crotch of his finely tailored pants, “No, I don’t think I am.”

“ _Lizzie?_ ” He asks, eyes huge, like he’s never seen her before, but Liz doesn’t intend to answer him with words.

She pulls out his cock. Right here, right now, hard and stiff and fat already in her fist.

She supposes he never has, not like this.
    
    
                                                                      ******************************

 But _oh_ , he will.

                                                                                                   ******************************

The thing is, this moment? With him tied to a chair and her hand on his cock? It isn’t her fault.

No really, it isn’t. This? This is whichever _bright little_ engineer designed The Box’s fault, and Liz is sticking by that.

Because the truth is, they’ve been headed here from the moment The Box opened, like some obscene, bizarre _gift_ and she saw him there, master of a nothing place. He’d been a king there, in one of the most secure facilities in the world, calling all the shots and knowing it and well...

Liz might have a _thing_ about power. Maybe, just a little bit.

Perhaps in general, Liz might say that she has an...interest in powerful men with sharp minds, and the one that had been trussed up all for her in that box, all dressed up in exquisitely tailored bespoke three piece suit? Well, he’d fit the mould, so to speak, staring at her with that _smirk_ on his face, eyes on her like she was the only woman in the world and telling her how _special_ she was.

More specifically, if pressed, Liz might admit she wanted to strip him of his armour, put her mouth on him until he begged, and knock that smirk off his face.

You know, not that she’s _thought_ about it, or anything.

But she was married then, and he was a stranger, so she refrained. But so much has changed since that first moment, she can hardly call them the same people. They’ve suffered losses, celebrated victories and held each other together when the world tried its best to tear them apart. Now she’s a widow and he’s the one steady thing in her shifting life, and everything has changed. Except one thing; she’d still like to tie him down and wipe that smirk off his face.

And then she bursts into a hotel room and there he is, all tied up with no place to go.

 
    
    
    ******************************

So she does.

 ******************************

He gets with the program fast, Liz will give him that. No stuttered protests or arguments to the contrary, just those eyes looking down at her, a little more dilated than normal, that seem to say _alright, Lizzie, what’s your move?_

Liz plans to _wreck_ him.

He’s hard in her hand, a nice fat girth in her fist, and a long smooth length with a little slip of a foreskin at the tip. Before she even tilts her eyes up, she can feel his full attention on her, in that way that he has, all consuming. He’s trying for nonchalant, but his flushed cheeks and his rapt gaze glowing down on her betray him.

All tied up and no place to go. He’s _lovely_. And all _hers_.

She’s wanted to do this for him - to him - from that first moment. Wanted to see him stripped of that damned _control,_ to make him come undone under her hands. And _oh_ , it’s already so much better than her imaginings, as he licks his lips, breath catching in his throat, the tortured exhalation of something that might resemble her name, and all she’s done is give his cock a nice little squeeze.

And well, behaviour like that deserves a reward, Liz decides, leaning forward and giving the tip a little kiss.

She’s unprepared her for the sound he makes as her tongue swirls over the tapered head of his cock, rough vowels dragged out of his throat. His consent is in the big, blunt fingers that grip the handles of the chain he’s bound to so hard the wood _creaks_ , the knots the only thing keeping him from tangling his hands in her hair and _pulling_ her closer. Still, even bound as he is he is not completely passive, as his hips push forward, nudging his cock slightly deeper into her willing mouth.

She doesn’t mind. She likes it when he’s willing to _play_.

There’s a noticeable wetness gathered between her legs now, soaking her panties. Getting him off is doing it for her in all the _best_ ways - the weight of him on her tongue, the sound of him in her ears - seeing him surrendering to his desire, to her.

She did mention she had a _thing_ about power.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

She keeps her grip on him, sliding her hand over what she won’t yet fit into her mouth and sets out to explore, to see what he likes, what brings him the most pleasure. Quick flicks over the head make him gasp and shiver, while hard slow suction drags rough, _guttural_ moans from deep within his throat.

 _Such a good boy_ , she thinks, letting her other hand drift to stroke his balls before taking him deeper into her mouth.

He grunts, deep and _base_ , and his thighs tense with the effort of keeping his hips from bucking up. The soft wool of his expensive dress pants brushes her cheek, enveloping her his crisp warm scent, one part expensive cologne, one part musk and one part something she has only been ever able to describe as _Red_.

Its the last part she likes best, naturally.

His grip on the chair tightened fractionally and she rolled his balls gently in her hand, and Liz delights in the gasping cadence as the sounds pouring from his lips run together. Raymond Reddington - The Concierge of Crime himself - reduced to babbling because of _her_.

This is what she craves - this is _power_.

Rigid, solid, eight inches of iron, but so _hot_ against her lips and tongue and throat. A nice big boy with bitter cream dripping from the tip, and he lets of a cry of her name as she pokes her tongue into the little opening, lapping up the glistening fluid.

Unlike Tom, and the select few other men she had gifted this act to, he is really so easy to please. No demands, no ‘helpful hints,’ or stupid, posturing directions, he just goes with her initiative, and loves every moment of it. For that, she rewards him by taking him deeper, sliding his length all the way in, until her nose bumps against his belly, rubbing the wiry hairs there and he groans, a rough jumble of syllables punctuated by her name. So she does it again, just to hear him moan long and low. Does it once more because she loves the way he bites out her name and fights reflexively against his bindings that keep him from her. Her fist finds its way around him again and his hips jerk as she squeezes his impressive girth.

Suck and slide, slow and steady.

She pulls her mouth away after a few moments, chuckling lowly at his whimper, and smiles impishly up at him, delighting in the _need_ she sees on his face. “Good?” she whispers, not hardly a question by far, but she wants to hear him say it.

She wants to _make_ him say it.

“God, yes,” he rasps, rocking his hips in her fist, the jerking motion almost _helpless_ in nature. She licks the beed of precum seeping from the tip as a reward as she teases, knowing the answer already, but wanting to make him work for it, “You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

The look he sends her, so incredulous as to be almost _desperate_ , is the best answer he could have ever given her.

But he tries anyways, shaking his head, cheeks flushed as red as his name. “Please...” he _begs_ , thighs shifting restlessly, balls tight against his body. He’s so close and she loves this, loves how wild and _helpless_ he is. She’s the centre of his universe in this moment, and they both know it.

The power dynamic between them, always so weighted towards him in the past has shifted rather dramatically in her favour in the last few minutes.

Liz would be lying if she didn’t admit how _good_ that feels.

“Please what?” she teases, innocent as a person could be while cupping a man’s balls, giving his cock a firm tug. He groans, head rolling back to _thud_ against the back of the chair as she continues, and the breath of her quandary flutters along the tender skin of his cock, “Come on, Red. Tell me what you _want_.”

He stares down at her, barely a ring of colour burning in his gaze his pupils are blown so wide. His hands fight against the bindings at his wrist, and she knows that if he was free, strong fingers would wrap in her hair and guide her mouth back to him. The knowledge makes her impossibly wetter, her free hand finding its way down into her panties, dipping into her slick, _drenched_ folds. He catches the movement and he lets out a tortured sound as his hips jerk upward, bumping his cock against her lips, but he hasn’t said what she wants to hear.

“No no, sweetheart,” she purrs, turning her head and deliberately avoiding the swollen, red tip, “You have to _say_ it,” and her clit feels _huge_ under her fingers. The sight of his need, of his _desperation_ is as exciting as the power rushing through her.

God, she’s _so_ wet.

“Suck me,” he manages, a plea rather than a demand and barely more than a growl and she rewards him with a slow swipe of her tongue. “ _Please_...suck my cock,” he grits out, _begging_ , and that’s enough to earn the head of his cock permission to slip back into her mouth for a nice long, _slow_ suck. She pushes her fingers deep inside her pussy, moaning around him, making him groan and _shake_ under her touch.

“Dreamed of this, that pretty pink mouth, sucking my cock,” he chokes out, voice like it’s been dragged over _gravel_ , and those are the last words he can manage before she gives him what he’s asked for so _politely_.

Broad swipes of her tongue dissolving into the wet friction of suck and slide. She’s soaking her fingers; he’s nearly drooling at both ends from want. She’d tease him, if her mouth wasn’t full about sight of him, mouth open and gasping dirty pleas, shaking hands clutching the arms of the chair, knuckles white with the force. He wants to move, she can tell, hips twitching slightly, thighs tensing again.

“Close...” he whimpers, shaking now, hips falling into an urgent, erratic rhythm and she gives his balls a gentle squeeze. So big, tight and full; he’s been clinging to the edge for a while now. So she picks up the pace, massaging his sac and urging him to cum, pressing the taunt flesh just behind them.

And then she lets her hands slip further, to press her index finger into that little opening, hidden deep away.

He makes a sound like she’s _killing_ him, and then he shudders, a full body movement before he floods her mouth with a gush of bitter fluid. Spunk is spunk, and Red, despite being so different from all the rest of the men in her life, is just as ordinary as the rest of them in this case. Bitter, a little salty and not the most pleasing thing that she’s ever put in her mouth, but he’s been so _good_ that Liz can’t help but swallow it all down. She even follows it up by licking him clean, gently lapping at the softening length before tucking him back in his pants, pressing a kiss to the quivering skin of his belly as she works that stupid button fly back together, pulling his armour back around him. All put back together again in his expensive bespoke suit.

But _oh_ , the effect, such as it were - the Concierge of Crime, master of all he surveys - is indeed wrecked. The suit is wrinkled and stained with the streak of his cum she couldn’t catch, knuckles white from the strain of holding onto the chair, face sweaty, pupils blown - he's a hot mess.

He’s never looked better, in Liz’s humble opinion.  And oh, best of all - he isn’t smirking. In fact, the term that Liz might use to best describe the way he looks down at her right now is _reverence_.

Liz can work with that.

He can stay the man who came out of The Box smirking, the master of the nothing place. She doesn’t have the pizzaz to pull that off, and Liz would never strip him of that side for good, because she’s quite... _fond_ of that aspect of him as well. But Liz is no pale princess of a palace cracked - her kingdom might have come crashing down, but Liz is going to build a new one out of the ashes with him, and rule it at his side.

She seats herself in his lap and kisses him, open mouthed and _dirty_ , feeding him back the taste of himself that he laps up hungrily, lips alive and _starving_ against her own, powerless against her.

******************************

 _That's what love is. Being powerless_.

******************************

He’s the master of the nothing place.

She’s the mistress of him.

******************************

 _Oh_ , they’re going to be _such_ a good team.

******************************

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I’m not even really in this fandom you guys! But yeah, apparently recently I remembered that Secretary was a thing, and that spiralled into buying season one of The Blacklist on sale on Black Friday, and then this happened. I feel like my fondness for smooth villains (or anti-heroes) in three piece suits might be showing. Oh well - hey, ever ship needs a little blowjob porn, right? I regret nothing.


End file.
